Every person has something different that they look for in hobbies. For some people it may be basketball, soccer, playing video games, or trading baseball cards, but for me I had something different in mind. Unlike most nine year olds, I had a passion for the sport of skeet shooting. Being that I was raised in an old-school conservative family, I grew up plinking tin cans in the woods with an old, worn, winchester .22 rifle. It was on my ninth birthday that I received my first gun, a 20 gauge cheaply made Turkish shotgun. I cherished the gun, and took it to the range at every opportunity; until one day the gun broke, and completely seized up from extensive use.   It was then that my family decided I should take it to the next level, so my gear progressively advanced, in addition to my skill. Free time with friends with replaced by time with me, my team, my firearm, and the clay pigeon that soared across the sky, cutting the air, before being shattered in miniscule pieces and a ploom of dust by a barrage of pellets. It was almost every weekend that I would travel hours to go to a competition where the one hundred degree and searing rays of the sun berated the competitor’s now singed skin. Local competitions continued for months, and then years. As time went on, I found myself in the big leagues, it was the state championship. My team and I performed our hearts out that day. The heat was so extreme that towards the end of the final round, the score keeper’s knees began to buckle as he fell to the ground, a beach made up of empty shells and shards of obliterated clay pigeons. The thing most important about this sport is that it is completely mind over matter. We all tried our best to not pay attention, as the scorekeeper was helped up, as the smallest destruction would throw off our focus for the rest of the round. When the game was up the only thing left to do was wait for the results. An hour passed, and when the sweat was gone from my forehead and the only thing on my mind was the crisp taste of gatorade, I received the news. In my skill level I was tied for first place with someone else. The way this is settled is by doing a “shoot off,” where the two competitors attempt to shoot two skeets out of the air from the most challenging positions. This continues until the first one misses. I was not nervous, as in my mind I had already lost.

My coach pulled me aside and said “You’re ten feet tall and bulletproof. Just tell yourself that” Never had I thought that I would be in a situation to go one-on-one against an opponent while hundreds of eyes are on us. My competitor walked onto the field, and twelve-year old me was in awe. He was a man in his sixties, who to me looked eight feet tall to miniscule me.

We shook hands, and with a smirk he smuggly said, “I’ll buy you ice cream if you purposely lose.” These words still stick with me to this day, as despite his best efforts to get in my head, I stood fast. He went first and missed his first shot. My heart raced and the crowd grew silent. For all I know they could have been yelling at the top of their lungs, but in that situation, all I could think was, “Ten feet tall and bulletproof.” The clay pigeons flew, and both proceeded to shatter.