Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The First
It was a strange looking table. She had heard it called a "bench" but the only "benches" she had ever seen were in the park. In her eyes, it looked more like an overgrown school desk. It had a large top covered in white carpet, with a seat placed at an angle to the top surface. It loomed in front of her, large and forbidding. Her pale blue eyes glanced around the small crowd that had gathered, trying to find solace in the faces of the strangers. The old man with streaks of grey in his hair that had brought her to this unknown place, full of noise and smoke, smiled slightly and nodded his head at the odd looking table.
BOOM! She shied away as an explosion from her right shattered the silence. Would it be like that?
BOOM! Another explosion came from her left, this one so close that she could smell the acrid smoke.
Timidly, she walked the last few feet and sat down at the table. The old man was saying something now, but in her excitement and fear the sound of his voice seemed to be muffled and coming from far away. He smiled at her again, and gently guided her hands to the thing on the table. The thing was made of a strange, dark colored metal. It had an ungainly looking handle made of a white material that reminded her of her teeth when she smiled. She wasn't smiling now though....her lips were pursed in grim determination. The old man had called the thing a "Colt" but she thought of it simply as "the cowboy gun."
The old man was speaking again, this time pointing at a notch cut into the top of the gun, then at a piece of metal that stuck up at the other end, and finally at a big black circle on a piece of paper hanging a few feet away. She tried to follow his directions, but she couldn't seem to stop her hands from shaking.
The old man reached out and put his thumb on a piece that stuck out of the gun and started to move it.
"Click"
"Click"
"Click"
"Click"
It sounded like a bomb preparing to explode. The old man stood behind her now, with his hands hovering a few inches above hers. What would happen when she did it? Would it hurt? Would it break her fingers? She had seen what these things can do on TV and in the movies. Would there be an explosion? Fire? Smoke? Would anyone scream? Would the police come? WHO WAS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF HER? She tried to make her finger move, but it wouldn't. She gripped the white handle even harder, so hard that her small knuckles stood out from the back of her delicate hands.
Turning her head slightly and closing her eyes against the anticipated fury, she moved her finger. Time seemed to stand still. The piece of metal began moving....moving....moving....finally coming to rest. She expected to soon see blood pumping from her shattered wrist, twisted bones covered with ragged flesh torn from her body by the violence she had unleashed. The mighty Colt Frontier Scout bellowed forth with a horrendous pop and twitched slightly in her trembling hands.
She sat still for a moment, slowly realizing that she had survived. She opened her eyes and saw the smiling faces of the strangers gathered around her table. Some patted her on the back, some spoke to her, some simply smiled and nodded. The old man gently took the cowboy gun from her hands and did something to it, causing a small cylinder of brass to fall onto the table. After he put the gun down, he knelt next to her and pointed to the black circle on the piece of paper. It had changed.
It now had a small hole, .22 inches in diameter, precisely in the center of the black.
The old man asked her if she wanted to do it again, and with a shy smile she said "Yes."
There was no fear now, just enjoyment. She would fire many other guns that day, some loud, some quiet, some large, some small, but none of them were as exciting and scary as The First.
Later that day, as the sun slipped behind the mountains and silence again settled over the desert, the young girl looked at the old man and said the magic words.........
"That was fun, Uncle Len. May I come with you again next weekend?"
And so begins the saga of Brianna, age 10, the newest member of the Buckeye youth shooting team.
BOOM! She shied away as an explosion from her right shattered the silence. Would it be like that?
BOOM! Another explosion came from her left, this one so close that she could smell the acrid smoke.
Timidly, she walked the last few feet and sat down at the table. The old man was saying something now, but in her excitement and fear the sound of his voice seemed to be muffled and coming from far away. He smiled at her again, and gently guided her hands to the thing on the table. The thing was made of a strange, dark colored metal. It had an ungainly looking handle made of a white material that reminded her of her teeth when she smiled. She wasn't smiling now though....her lips were pursed in grim determination. The old man had called the thing a "Colt" but she thought of it simply as "the cowboy gun."
The old man was speaking again, this time pointing at a notch cut into the top of the gun, then at a piece of metal that stuck up at the other end, and finally at a big black circle on a piece of paper hanging a few feet away. She tried to follow his directions, but she couldn't seem to stop her hands from shaking.
The old man reached out and put his thumb on a piece that stuck out of the gun and started to move it.
"Click"
"Click"
"Click"
"Click"
It sounded like a bomb preparing to explode. The old man stood behind her now, with his hands hovering a few inches above hers. What would happen when she did it? Would it hurt? Would it break her fingers? She had seen what these things can do on TV and in the movies. Would there be an explosion? Fire? Smoke? Would anyone scream? Would the police come? WHO WAS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF HER? She tried to make her finger move, but it wouldn't. She gripped the white handle even harder, so hard that her small knuckles stood out from the back of her delicate hands.
Turning her head slightly and closing her eyes against the anticipated fury, she moved her finger. Time seemed to stand still. The piece of metal began moving....moving....moving....finally coming to rest. She expected to soon see blood pumping from her shattered wrist, twisted bones covered with ragged flesh torn from her body by the violence she had unleashed. The mighty Colt Frontier Scout bellowed forth with a horrendous pop and twitched slightly in her trembling hands.
She sat still for a moment, slowly realizing that she had survived. She opened her eyes and saw the smiling faces of the strangers gathered around her table. Some patted her on the back, some spoke to her, some simply smiled and nodded. The old man gently took the cowboy gun from her hands and did something to it, causing a small cylinder of brass to fall onto the table. After he put the gun down, he knelt next to her and pointed to the black circle on the piece of paper. It had changed.
It now had a small hole, .22 inches in diameter, precisely in the center of the black.
The old man asked her if she wanted to do it again, and with a shy smile she said "Yes."
There was no fear now, just enjoyment. She would fire many other guns that day, some loud, some quiet, some large, some small, but none of them were as exciting and scary as The First.
Later that day, as the sun slipped behind the mountains and silence again settled over the desert, the young girl looked at the old man and said the magic words.........
"That was fun, Uncle Len. May I come with you again next weekend?"
And so begins the saga of Brianna, age 10, the newest member of the Buckeye youth shooting team.
