"Pull!" one shouts, finally secure in the feel of the stock against his shoulder and his sight on the bead.
The slightest touch of his finger sends forth a violent explosion of plastic and metal. The shot hurdles forward at terrible speed to find the clay disc flying through the air. It shatters into hundreds of pieces, giving the shooter a thrill of success.
This is the most basic expression of the Second Amendment.
This is the right to bear arms.
This is trap shooting.
When people hear about the NRA or people protesting stricter gun laws, they imagine ignorant, toothless, rednecks who enjoy the company of their siblings a bit too much. This is a pedantic caricature of the people who enjoy this sport. I'll admit, a few of these men may be behind in their dental upkeep, but they are kind, responsible, funny, Godly men (usually).
That doesn't mean they can't be a bit rude and crude at times, but their ribbing is good-natured and evenly dispersed. Laughter is as common as gunshot, though the men try not to break each other's concentration during the actual shooting. My dad recently broke his ankle, and the comments are equal parts giving him a hard time about it, and offering any and all assistance he needs between now and harvest. These men take the “I’ll give you the shirt off my back” mentality almost literally.
It's interesting watching the various shooting styles these men possess. Most keep it simple and just follow the target. Others end their turn with a flourish that makes me worry for the time their shot gets a little delayed. My favorite is the guy who kicks his back foot up and lunges forward a little, as though it is him, not the explosion of gun powder and sparks, that propels the shot forward.
The men also have several different reactions to their failures. The triumphs are almost all celebrated with a small smile and return of concentration. Most of the men react to defeats with only a tightening of the lips and a grim shake of the head. Some mutter a few curses under their breath and grip their gun a little harder on the next round. And I know of one who, in his younger days, would react to a streak of missed birds by breaking open the gun to violently eject the spent shell, snap it back together, and then bounce the stock of the gun as hard as he could on the concrete. All this while spewing forth a stream of vitriol that could make some of the truckers blush and thank the good Lord their earmuffs kept them from hearing most of what was said. Even this man (who may or may not definitely be my father) never got angry at anyone else, only worked to better himself with every opportunity.
My dad started bringing my sister and I to the Gun Club when we each reached the age of six or seven. Some of you may gasp in horror at the thought of bringing such young children to be audience to a sport that is literally all about guns. However, you people can take a deep breath and relax. I won't say my sister or I (especially I) were particularly mature for children our age, but that doesn't mean we didn't have a healthy respect for the potentially deadly qualities of what our father was doing. Dad carefully pointed out what we could and could not touch while at the Gun Club. There was “ could not” in most of those conversations. There was also a clear line where we couldn't cross whether the men were shooting or not. While I won't credit my sister and I with an overabundance of maturity, we were intelligent enough to know when Dad meant business, because our normally quiet father would achieve some impressive volume if we disobeyed. Not to mention it takes a severe lack of survival instinct to cross over into the shooting area while trap is being shot.
Those times at the Gun Club were some of my favorite memories growing up. I never lacked for stray uncles, and there were even a few women on occasion. Some of the other men in the club brought their own children, and my sister and I were able to entertain, and in turn be entertained, by others. In fact, I would say that mitigated most of the danger in my childhood. Though vast amounts of time spent with my sister could sometimes be life threatening for me even without projectile weapons at the ready. Obviously it was never my fault when we fought, but that's a story for another day. (Don't listen to any comments that say otherwise, by the way--that includes you, mom). The Gun Club was the first place I experienced a crush on an older boy. He was a whole two years older than me, which basically made him too far out of my reach, but perfect for my sister. Which may explain some of that sibling rivalry ;) Mostly though, trips to the Gun Club were times I got to spend with my dad. It was also some of the few times my sister and I got along for longer periods of time.
I stopped going to the Gun Club when I was around twelve, because even with this abundance of 'uncles’--or even a first crush--there wasn't enough to keep me occupied while dad shot anymore. It has only been in the last couple of months that I've started intermittently going back with my dad. I shot a couple of times around the time I was 12 and decided not to go back, but I straight up sucked and that may have been part of the reason I stopped. I haven't really gotten any better, but fifteen years later, I'm more willing to approach my lack of skill with some pragmatism. The only way to get better is to try, though that is certainly the more frustrating approach :P
I won’t go into my views on gun laws either pro or con. Mostly because I’m not phishing for trolls, but also because I admittedly don’t keep up on politics much at all. If Jon Stewart covers it, I’ll give it a listen, but unless it’s a topic about which I’m truly interested and willing to do the research in other news sources to find out every side of the issue, I don’t keep up on politics. Though if you do happen to go to a gun club with a Liberal outlook on life, be prepared to get offended on occasion, no matter how much news and politics you follow ;)
Regardless of the politics, visiting the Gun Club is still fun and fascinating to watch. There truly is poetry and skill in this sport, and anything that gives my dad this level of enjoyment is always a great idea in my opinion. (Though when the guys try to talk to me about their gauge, shot weight, or any other technical aspects, I start talking about Doctor Who so we’re all equally confused.)
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